Read Online Mira Corpora by Jeff Jackson - Free Book Online Page B

symbol,” she explains. “It started as some inside joke, but the image stuck.” As she talks, her hand obsessively traces and retraces the image. “There are rumors Kin is hiding out in one of the nearby projects. We did the tags to get his attention. To coax him out into the open.” She straightens the collar of her immaculately tattered raincoat. “That’s also why I gave you the tape.”
    â€œBut why me?”
    â€œYou’re on the street,” Lena says. “You know what’s really happening.” She sweeps aside her multi-colored tresses so there’s nothing obscuring her eyes. “You must have heard some stories about Kin. You have to know something.”
    Her challenging tone and imploring look make this feel like a test. Though it’s pretty obvious I don’t know a thing, there still seems to be a correct response. I close my eyes and recall Kin’s unearthly voice.
    â€œMaybe he hasn’t quit,” I say. “Maybe he’s making music in secret. Maybe he’s waiting for people to catch up to his new sounds.”
    There’s a stretch of silence where the only sounds are the clank of utensils in the kitchen and the murmur of foreign dialects. Then Lena smiles. She says to her friends: “I told you he was all right.”
    Lena pours some tea into a chipped china cup and hands it to me. It’s a clear liquid that turns out to be pure grain alcohol. I cough after the first burning swallow.
    Markus laughs and pats me on the back. “We love the tea
here,” he says. “It’s their specialty. You’ll get a taste for it pretty quick.”
    Hank remains silent. He still seems to be evaluating me. His arms are crossed and his thumb circles one of the black totems on his bicep. His gaze remains trained on me. “Before we get all cozy,” he says, “we need you to do something for us.”
    Hank looks pointedly at Lena. She nods and fishes in the inner pocket of her overcoat. She places a runny can of silver spray paint on the table, then slides the cardboard stencil next to it. Lastly, she produces a cassette from her bag that looks strikingly similar to mine. She gives me a shrug that seems apologetic, almost.
    Hank says: “Paint some tags around the neighborhood to help us spread the word.”
    He says: “Give the tape to someone who might have information about Kin and see what you can find out.”
    He says: “Once you’ve done that, come find us.”
    Hank rolls up the sleeve of my sweatshirt and writes a street address on my forearm in black felt-tip marker. Then he throws a few crumpled bills on the table and leads the others out of the restaurant. Lena waves to me over her shoulder. “Hope to see you soon,” she says. I watch as the door swings shut behind them. The bell tied to the handle clangs several times and the sound echoes through the empty dining room, rippling in waves that take a long time to dissipate.
    I sit alone in the booth, scarfing down the leftover dumplings and emptying the teapot. My mind slowly grapples with the tasks I’ve been assigned. I absently scrape the silver paint from the nozzle of the spray can while strategizing the most effective placement for graffiti and ideal candidates for the cassette. There are so many variables that my head spins. Eventually I decide the best solution is to complete my charge as soon as possible. Spray a few desultory tags across the neighborhood. Give the tape to the first person I see.

    When I leave the restaurant, my sweatshirt bulges with the tools of my mission. Almost immediately, I spot the Asian waitress. She’s now talking on the pay phone, the plastic receiver cupped in the crook of her neck. She speaks in a terse code punctuated by stabbing and balletic hand gestures. It doesn’t sound like English and given the hushed quality of her voice, it could just as easily be an invented private